“There,” said Gribton, his eyes now free from drowsiness, and clear and bright, “that’s the road I fear.”

“But these three inches are unknown,” said Lewis.  “I have been myself as far as these hills.”

Gribton looked sharply up.  “You don’t know the place as I know it.  I’ve never been so far, but I know the sheep-skinned devils who come across from Turkestan.  I tell you that place isn’t the impenetrable craggy desert that the Government of India thinks it.  There’s a road there of some sort, and if you’re worth your salt you’ll find it out.”

“I know,” said Lewis.  “I am going to try.”

“There’s another thing.  For the last three years all that north part of Kashmir, and right away south-west to the Punjab borders, has been honoured with visits from plausible Russian gentlemen who may come down by the ordinary caravan routes, or, on the other hand, may not.  They turn up quite suddenly with tooth-brushes and dressing-cases, and they can’t have come from the south.  They fool around in Bardur, and then go down to Gilgit, and, I suppose, on to the Punjab.  They’ve got excellent manners, and they hang about the clubs and give dinners and charm the whole neighbourhood.  Logan is their bosom friend, and Thwaite declares that their society reconciles him to the place.  Then they go away, and the place keeps on the randan for weeks after.”

“Do you know a man called Marker by any chance?” Lewis asked.

Gribton looked curiously at the speaker.  “Have you actually heard about him?  Yes, I know him, but not very well, and I can’t say I ever cared for him.  However, he is easily the most popular man in Bardur, and I daresay is a very good fellow.  But you don’t call him Russian.  I thought he was sort of half a Scotsman.”

“Very likely he is,” said Lewis.  “I happen to have heard a good deal about him.  But what ails you at him?”

“Oh, small things,” and the man laughed.  “You know I am getting elderly and cranky, and I like a man to be very fair and four-square.  I confess I never got to the bottom of the chap.  He was a capital sportsman, good bridge-player, head like a rock for liquor, and all that; but I’m hanged if he didn’t seem to me to be playing some sort of game.  Another thing, he seemed to me a terribly cold-blooded devil.  He was always slapping people on the back and calling them ‘dear old fellows,’ but I happened to see a small interview once between him and one of his servants.  Perhaps I ought not to mention it, but the thing struck me unpleasantly.  It was below the club verandah, and nobody happened to be about except myself, who was dozing after lunch.  Marker was rating a servant in some Border tongue—­Chil, it sounded like; and I remember wondering how he could have picked it up.  I saw the whole thing through a chink in the floor, and I noticed that the servant’s face was as grey as a brown hillman’s can be.  Then the fellow suddenly caught his arm and twisted it round, the man’s face working with pain, though he did not dare to utter a sound.  It was an ugly sight, and when I caught a glimpse of Marker’s face, ’pon my soul, those straight black eyebrows of his gave him a most devilish look.”